


Last Resort

by elanor_pam



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skaianet agents John and Dave track down the whereabouts of the elusive Mr. Vantas, Host of the Crab, at the request of fellow AlterniaOrg survivor Vriska Serket, Host of the Scorpion.</p><p>The search was not nearly as dramatic as they would eventually make it sound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Resort

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the first homestuck fic I ever wrote, back during the post-Cascade hiatus. It got stalled two-thirds of the way in, and I was only recently able to pick it back up and finish what I'd started. Many thanks to MercurialMalcontent for cleaning it up!

"You fuckers will know him when you’re all up and meeting at him," the clown said, his eyes distant and dilated as he took another deep drag of his stinky roll. "He’s the one, man. He’s the motherfucking one. You’ll just up and know it, man."

John’s passive air defenses seemed to consider the smog he produced a threat, as the dark coils rolled past and away from him as if redirected by a transparent barrier. Dave had no such passive skills that he was aware of; maybe his lungs would take longer to rot instead. But he was no stranger to recreational drugs, and wasn’t nearly as fazed by their current host as John, who took in the juggalo’s messy, dirty beach shack with horror written all over his face. What else had he expected from one of Serket’s contacts, though?

"I know I do, man," the juggalo went on, his voice growing rough. "Ev’rytime I look at the motherfucker, I just up and know it in my gut, man." His eyes went misty. "I love him."

John couldn’t help going teary-eyed as well, though it might have just been his passive protection giving up the ghost. There was just too much smoke for even a wind elemental to take on. Dave simply raised one eyebrow slightly above the rim of his shades.

"So where can we find your sweet loving miracle crab boyfriend?" he asked, since John was clearly too moved by the love story apparently unfolding in front of his eyes to remember what they were there for.

"Nah, he ain’t my boyfriend, fucker," the juggalo unfurled one lanky, tanned arm to the side, casually flicking the butt of his joint, just enough for the ashes to drop to the humid wooden floor. It was a simple movement, but this guy just seemed to be able to make it go on forever, like a lazy, unhurried snake. "And you don’t up and worry about finding him, man, miracles will take you there. Miracles all up around that bitch, he’s just all made of miracles, man, he’s a fucking miracle."

He spaced out again, slouching on his rickety, nearly green wooden table with his knees to his chest, his rough heels shedding splinters from the wood, and his toes dangling heavy with thick untrimmed toenails. It was past noon and they still hadn’t made any progress, despite spending the last few hours standing in front of the right person who clearly had the right information. Dave fervently wished he could grab the man and shake him by the shoulders, but he couldn’t; hippie pothead or not, that guy was still the Capricorn, Host of the Sea Goat, and one of the most dangerous among the Twelve.

Meanwhile, John stared at the juggalo’s slack-jawed face and wondered if all the remnants of AlterniaOrg were so broken. Vriska had issues by the dozens — and he understood them, he really did — but this guy was just a sad, sorry sight to behold. Did he smoke pot in order to alleviate his burden?

In the end they just searched through the meager contents of the seaside shack, unimpeded by their dazed host, and dug out a crumpled and greasy card carefully wrapped in notebook paper. It had an elegant and nearly illegible curlicued logo, an Athenea Resort or something; one of its phone numbers was circled in blue pen, and on the back of the card there was an extension number and, in fat cursive, "ask for Vantas".

They showed their find to their host; his eyes glowed as he saw the card, and he worshipfully called it "a motherfucking miracle, man". He all but gave them outright permission to take it along, justifying it with some sort of warped _finders keepers_ logic, but in the end John just wrote down the name, address and phone number before carefully pushing the card, wrapped once again in its note paper, back into the pants pocket they found it in.

Gamzee Makara watched as he did so with a sad sort of kindness on his face.

* * *

One phone call later and they were able to determine that Mr. Vantas still worked at the Athenea Resort’s restaurant, but only in the evenings. John panicked and shut his cellphone when asked if he’d like to leave a message, though; thankfully Dave had the rather simple idea of phoning from his own number and reserving a table for two with Vantas as their waiter.

"It’s better to meet him face-to-face anyway," he said, shrugging. "There’s no way you can explain this shit by phone, and if he’s another slippery type we might have to hold him down and drag him back."

"I don’t want to _drag_ him back," complained John, "and I don’t think we could hold him down anyway. He’s one of the Twelve!"

"He’s _Cancer_." Dave shrugged. "That’s pretty low on the rung."

"Aradia is Aries and she could still kick the asses of five of you together," John pointed out.

"Nah, man, Aradia is different." Dave shrugged again, but a Dave-specialist might have read some defensiveness in the movement. "She’s a host and an elemental at the same time. What are the odds of another elemental among the twelve?"

"Don’t say that out loud," laughed John. "Or else this Karkat guy will turn out to spit fire and summon dragons."

"Doubt it." Dave lifted his chin just enough to let John know he wasn’t serious. "I bet he’ll spit bubbles and summon crabs, and then we’ll have delicious seafood for dinner. Hell, I bet that’s what he does at the restaurant. He’s paid to supply the cooks with clean and safe crab meat, magically summoned by his Crab Mating Dance."

John laughed at the joke, but privately he couldn’t dismiss the way Aradia, Vriska and Gamzee spoke of the Fourth Sign Host.

Aradia and Vriska regarded the Pisces Host with a sort of mystical worshipfulness which felt resentful at times, as if that which they held and represented couldn’t help but defer to the Twelfth, regardless of their actual feelings. The boys hadn’t brought up Feferi Peixes to Gamzee, but it wouldn’t surprise either of them if he reacted the same way.

When the topic was the Cancer Host, though... Karkat this, Karkat that. Karkat is a meddley meddler 8usy8ody with a bleeding heart, he’ll freak out so don’t tell him too much, he just worries, he’s a worrywart!!!!!!!! He’s always crabby and ornery but it’s just a shell, inside he’s soft and squishy and be careful with your words, Dave, your needles could hit a crack and hurt for real. He’s a miracle and miracles are all around him, man, he’s beautiful, he’s like all the hugs in the universe, he’s the one.

What would happen if you put Karkat Vantas and Feferi Peixes in the same room, thought John to himself. It could only end in tragedy.

(They would have, and in fact already had, gotten along smashingly. They also would have, and already had, made all sorts of plans with regards to the remnants of the organization which had created them, and to the well-being of their group of fellow victims.)

What would happen if these guys were forced to choose between Vantas and Peixes, wondered Dave privately. It might be a clash of instincts like no other.

(It would never be an issue, for Peixes herself had chosen Vantas. That, however, was not for anyone to know so early in their game.)

* * *

It was while entertaining such thoughts that they sat at their table for two that evening.

The Athenea Resort wasn’t big, but it was definitely elite, oozing class without being ostentatious. Chrome railings and water pools surrounded the marble veranda where the tables were located, with palm trees crisscrossed by the shimmering lights of underwater lanterns. The seats were wooden recliners padded with pillows, and the parasols over their heads were made of tightly braided straw. The waiters were handsome, tanned young men, dressed as if they used to belong to some uptight restaurant and decided to rebel by mistreating the uniform — not one of them was dressed the same, but they all shared a similar design. Mussed or wet hair was common, as were open waistcoats and discarded suit jackets, in a very deliberate display of rebelliousness. Otherwise they were the picture of professionalism, perfectly elegant and proper, all murmured "yes, sir" and "at once, madam", and the clientele was eating it up with silver spoons.

Gamzee’s miserable shack was a distant memory, literally — it was a six hour car ride from one point to the other, and it was a good thing Dave had Time powers or else they’d have never gotten to their table on time. John still wished SkaiaNet would have let them take the helicopter, but at least they were footing the resort’s bill...

"I wonder how we’re going to find the guy, though," mumbled John, looking around himself as if he were the humorously backwards hick in Hollywood’s latest shitty comedy. "Funny how they can go on and on about him but totally forget to actually describe his looks."

"Nah, man, it’ll be easy," Dave lounged back on his chair, surveying his surroundings more subtly from behind his shades, taking note of all the looks they were receiving. "Just look for the sexiest bastard, that’ll be him."

John sputtered around his pineapple drink, somehow managing to not turn it into a spit-take, and stared at him with really wide eyes.

"I’m serious," said Dave. "No, really, man, don’t tell me you never noticed—"

"Noticed _what!?_ " John pretty much squeaked out, tugging out his glasses to wipe it free of pineapple juice droplets.

" _Dude_ ," Dave said, with so much emphasis his lips went pouty, and he even raised a hand palm up. "These Zodiac guys are all stupidly sexy all the time. Even the pothead was. It’s just a thing they do. I guess it’s just like you to not notice, though, being oblivious is kind of your thing—"

"I’m _not_ — I—" John sputtered further. "Look, Dave, I know they’re _graceful_ , but maybe I just don’t think being graceful and pretty equates sex, you know? Because I don’t have my mind in the gutter all the time. Like certain stupid sunshaded blond guys I could name."

Dave’s upturned hand moved to his chest. "Your words _burn_ me," he drawled, before setting his arm back down. "By the way, I’m pretty sure that’s him over there."

"Wait, where?" John turned around on his chair without the least attempt at subtlety. "How do you know?"

"I know because he’s the one," said Dave, flatly. "The one sexiest motherfucker in this whole damn resort, that is."

Soon enough John spotted the guy in question, and immediately turned back around to give Dave the most buck-toothed victorious grin in history. Karkat Vantas really was unmistakable, though — he moved with the same casual sensuality of every other host they’d encountered, subtly different from them in the same way that Vriska’s predatory expansiveness was different from Gamzee’s languid serpentine double-jointedness and Aradia’s precise litheness. Karkat Vantas was self-contained, economic in his movements, as if he were surrounded by a bubble of private space he only breached with the utmost caution. Inside his little bubble, though, his every limb seemed to _glide_.

His skin was a smooth chestnut brown, and its healthy shimmer was completely different from the oily shine of lotions some of his co-workers sported. It contrasted beautifully with his white dress shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the neck and cuffs as it was, a contrast further enhanced by his dark pinstriped waistcoat — a tight figure-hugging number which gave him an enviable waist line, probably supplied by an utter costuming genius. His black hair was thick and uncombed, the tips of each heavy lock resolving into a half-hearted curl.

Every other waiter in the resort had been carefully and deliberately groomed to appear ungroomed. Karkat Vantas, on the other hand, had apparently rolled out of bed and put on his uniform without giving a single flying fuck, and hungry little eyes followed the rumpled backside of his untucked shirt everywhere it went.

At that very moment, in fact, Vantas was serving liquor to an elderly couple in bathing suits, his mouth drawn into a tight bemused line as both sides of the geriatric relationship ogled him rather openly.

"I was wrong, man," said Dave, leaning over the table to hiss at John. "It’s not crabs, it’s _patrons_ that he summons with his mating dance."

John whapped him in the mouth with the menu before dissolving into helpless giggling.

* * *

The two young men watched their target for a little while longer, making their own private observations.

John observed that Karkat could do that cool thing where he turned the bottle at an upwards angle from way high up and filled the tumbler on the table without spilling a single drop. He’d always thought it was so cool when waiters in the movies did that. He’d also expected Karkat to be a little more crab-like, like maybe he’d walk sideways and be a little skittery and he’d use his hands like they were pincers, and maybe he’d be a little squatty too, but Karkat wasn’t any of those things; he’d seemed lanky until he’d stood close to another waiter, when he was revealed as rather average in height, and when he walked he sort of swooped through the tables, like Aradia’s gliding but with extra nervous energy on it. Every now and then he’d turn his shoulders to walk through a space he’d easily fit through otherwise, but the motion had something of a dancer’s swing in it. It was not animalistic at all. Boy, it sure would be cool to put the Zodiac Hosts together in a dance party!

Dave observed that Vantas was nearly monosyllabic in his dealings with the patrons, brutally efficient in his serving, never smiled, and got a fuckton of tips. He suffered the giggling and flirting of women young and old with the air of someone who’s trying hard not to roll their eyes, and nodded absently through the small talk fat businessmen attempted to make with him. Every now and then he would go into the kitchen, presumably to fuck the nearest co-worker into the wall, and then stride out triumphantly half a minute later with a loaded tray and a look of profound unamusement in his face. It was as if the restaurant was a catwalk and he was the pissiest model.

In fact, Dave had overheard patrons offer more than once to put him in contact with Some Guy from Some Modelling Agency, boy, you would be great, just give me your phone number and I’ll have them in contact toot-sweet. And then Vantas would nod and thank them and give each of them a different number, because if he felt like being a model he’d clearly be somewhere else already.

Jesus, the guy had to be doing all of that on purpose, because if it turned out all those hosts were so damn sexy without even trying Dave would just take a fucking Olympic-grade pirouette off the goddamn handle and rack on a Guinness record for number of sicknasty midair rotations per second.

(Meanwhile, the other patrons observed those two handsome young men sitting together contemplating that one handsome young waiter, and had impure thoughts.)

Eventually, Mr. Indian Hotness made it to their table with hot towels on a tray and an expression that spelled ‘I hate patrons who specify me for serving and making them wait is the closest thing I have to joy’. 

"Good evening," he said, setting the towels down by each of them. 

Dave had expected his voice to be sultry and sexy, in keeping with the pattern so far, but it was... kind of disappointingly normal? Maybe a bit on the raspy side. He felt weirdly cheated. John just nodded and greeted the guy back — in fact, Vantas seemed to expect his greeting to be answered, and willing to stand there silently until the answer came. It was probably part of how he tormented choosy patrons.

"Have you chosen your menu for the night?" he asked, having apparently determined the greeting was to his taste. 

"Oh, yes," said Dave, flipping his menu leaflet closed with a flick of his finger. "We’d like an Alternian Crab with a side-order of Broken Scorpion and half a serving of fries."

John gasped, Vantas froze. Dave tensed on his seat. 

Catching him flat-footed gave them a significant morale advantage, but destabilizing a target could backfire in several messy ways. There was no telling how he’d react to being discovered; the possibilities ranged from flipping the table to calling upon whatever mystical abilities he possessed, either way resulting in property damage they’d have to pay for. 

The sea breeze stilled around them, and the seconds seemed to _stretch_ — 

Vantas sighed through his nose, his forehead creasing in the universal lines for ‘I ain’t paid enough for this shit’. "Who are you?" 

"We’re from Skaianet," John mumbled hurriedly.

Dave went through a whole another bout of readying for table-flipping, but he needn’t have bothered; Vantas’ shoulders lowered subtly, and the effect was a lot like he’d dropped an entire trench coat of lead.

"Oh," he said, and his voice was completely different from before. "Okay."

And he flipped the empty tray under his arm in a lightning-quick, no-nonsense movement that made Dave think of a sword being sheathed and put John in mind of wuxia movies. 

"So what’s her problem now?" he asked.

"It’s... complicated," said John, suddenly very intent on something under his nail.

"When is it ever not complicated when it comes to her?" Vantas pointed out with something close to humor in his voice, immediately jumping twenty steps up in Dave’s personal regard. "Okay, I won’t make you answer that— anyway. If you came all the way here after me, then, let me guess, you need me in person."

"Pretty much," Dave admitted.

"Can this wait until my day off, though?" he asked. It really was remarkable how he’d completely changed in expression, posture and tone. "I’m completely booked for the month, you guys lucked out hard tonight. And I’m out of vacation time for the year. That’ll be monday," he clarified.

John sucked some air through his teeth. 

"I’m afraid not," said Dave. "It’s kind of an emergency."

Vantas just sighed again. "It’s always an emergency," he said, almost philosophically. And then he tapped the table with two brisk fingers, making John jump. "Fine, then, just come pick me up when I’m out. Can we make it there and back overnight? I have classes in the afternoon."

"Maybe if we take the copter," said John.

"I’ll hold you to that," he said. And then he shifted on his feet, drawing himself into an almost convincing facsimile of his previous pissy persona. "And now I sure do hope you have actual dishes to request, or else I’m going to go back in there and wait another half an hour and you fuckers better give me a big tip for it."

"How about crab soup?" shot Dave, flippantly— but Vantas’ face pinched into pained shock, and the easy atmosphere seemed to curdle around them; he took a sharp, shallow breath, his back stiffening and his grip on the tray tightening as if it were a shield he was about to throw—

An awkward silence stretched, and it had nothing to do with Dave’s powers.

Eventually Vantas seemed to gather himself. His eyes flickered to the crab tank and back, and his shoulders lowered under visible duress; he took a shaky breath, licked his suddenly very pale lips and muttered, unamused and defensive:

"...please _don’t_."


End file.
